


The Ruse

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Kissing For A Reason, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22786471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg trusts Mycroft; he won't hesitate to follow directions if it's to keep them both safe. Of course, things don't always go entirely as he thought they might.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 46
Kudos: 343
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	The Ruse

_Congratulations, Detective Inspector. A celebratory drink is in order, I think? - MH_

_Yep. Red Lion, Balham. See you there? - Greg_

_Half an hour. - MH_

Greg grinned and put his phone away. Mycroft would meet him here, with just enough time to finish this pint before Mycroft joined him for the next. He wouldn’t admit to anyone how much he looked forward to closing big cases these days. Of course he had the same satisfaction in his work as always, but now there was the added bonus of meeting Mycroft in whatever pub was closest to the arrest for a drink afterwards. Somehow nobody seemed to mind that he tended to let his team go for the day as soon as the arrest was made, provided it was vaguely close to the end of the day. Somehow, Mycroft was always about half an hour away.

It had started at the end of one long, exhausting day when Greg’d wanted nothing more than to sit in a pub with his pint. Even Mycroft’s fancy club wouldn’t cut the mustard. When he’d refused Mycroft’s invitation, instead suggesting Mycroft could come into the pub if he really needed to talk, Greg had not expected him to actually come in. It was a pretty middling pub, and Mycroft was the best dressed in there by a very long shot. They’d had an enjoyable night, though, and it wasn’t until much later Greg realised they hadn’t spoken about Sherlock that night at all.

It had, however set their new precedent.

Six months later and Greg didn’t even bother letting Mycroft know there was an arrest. He always knew, and their unspoken arrangement stood regardless of the location. Sometimes Greg wondered, sneaking a look over his glass as Mycroft sipped at whatever passed for the best Scotch in the pub. Was there more to the effort than friendship? Surely Mycroft didn’t bother following anyone else’s cases so closely, or rearrange his working day to be in the vicinity of the arrests made by them? It certainly wasn’t a professional concern; they rarely discussed Sherlock these days, nor Greg’s cases.

For all their conversation, there were two areas into which neither veered: relationships, and soulmates. Many people would argue they were one and the same, but in Greg’s mind they were separate from each other. A first touch might make a soulmate, but it had nothing to do with the relationship before or after – assuming there was an after.

His skin was still unmarked, something he didn’t particularly try to hide. By his age most people had a brush of colour somewhere, often on hands or arms, though it wasn’t uncommon to see someone with the telltale mark on their face or neck. When he was younger Greg would smile, imagining the touch that would have left such a shape. Was someone brushing hair off that woman’s face, fingers trailing down her brow and leaving the pink streak? What had that man said to bear such a clear red handprint on his cheek? Did many people have the same circles of acid green on their neck as though fingers were taking a pulse?

He’d always figured that by now he would have some colour of his own, but it hadn’t happened. The smiles stopped after his first homicide scene, when the questions had been more sobering. Was there someone with a matching purple on their skin wondering where this young man was? Would they see the colour fade out of their mark, dread pooling in their stomach as they realised what it meant? Or would they only look after police turned up at their door, sombre expressions foretelling the grim news they bore?

It wasn’t so nice after that.

As was his habit, Greg tried to look for Mycroft’s colour when they’d first met, but between the scarf, overcoat and gloves, there wasn’t a lot of skin to see. As they’d spent more time together Mycroft had removed a few layers – literally and figuratively – but still Greg was no closer to seeing any evidence of a soulmark. Given how carefully Mycroft avoided conversations about personal relationships, Greg never really thought he could bring up the topic, so it remained a bit of a mystery. Not that he minded; most of the time, his evenings with Mycroft were the highlight of his week, whether they were at a random pub or in Mycroft’s private room.

Mycroft was incredibly intelligent, of course, but he never made Greg feel foolish. When he asked a question he was always genuinely interested in Greg’s response and Greg was no longer surprised that he remembered almost every word Greg uttered. It was flattering to have someone actually pay attention, and he hoped Mycroft enjoyed their conversations too. Greg supposed that if he was still coming to the pub it couldn’t be all that bad.

“Alright?”

Greg greeted Mycroft as he appeared. The bar was surprisingly busy for a Thursday evening. Most of Greg’s people were here, the long week wearing on everyone. He’d shouted them the first round, aware a little goodwill would go a long way when they all had reams of tedious paperwork to fill in tomorrow. Now the team had found a booth, settling in for the evening. Greg had opted to hold up the end of the bar, back to the wall, able to see the room and door from where he stood. Old habits died hard.

“Good evening,” Mycroft replied, hanging his overcoat and scarf over the back of his barstool. “Thank you.”

He accepted the Scotch the barman laid before him, raising his glass to meet Greg’s fresh pint. “Congratulations,” he murmured, his usual toast.

“Cheers,” Greg answered. “It’s busy in here tonight.”

“This area often is,” Mycroft replied. “I believe there are a high proportion of white collar offices in the vicinity.”

Greg hummed. “I haven’t worked in this part of the city for a long time.”

“You worked around here?” Mycroft asked, eyes watching with interest.

“Undercover,” Greg said with a grin. “Can’t tell you any more or…” he shrugged theatrically. “You know the drill.”

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. His eyes roamed around the bar. “I have limited experience in that area, myself.”

“The spy game or the undercover?” Greg asked. He kept his tone light and his grin wide to show he wasn’t seriously asking. It was nice to have this banter, he thought. Especially at the end of the day. Just someone to talk to, the easy rhythm of conversation that didn’t cost any energy but still smoothed the rough edges. He wouldn’t allow himself to think any further on that right now.

_Enjoy this. It’s enough. You can hardly ask for more, after all._

“Both, of course,” Mycroft replied. His eyes returned to Greg. “I’m just a public servant, remember.”

“Yeah, of course,” Greg grinned. “So tell me something boring about what you’ve been up to, then. Any takers on that threepence proof you’re trying to offload?”

They fell into a conversation about Mycroft’s coin collection. He had recently reviewed his collection with a view to keeping only the best pieces. Greg listened, knowing nothing about coins but interested in this glimpse into Mycroft’s personal life. Most of what he was talking about didn’t mean a lot at the time, but Greg just liked listening to his voice, quietly content to hear Mycroft sound enthusiastic about something. Greg would never admit that he’d gone home and googled most of the coins Mycroft mentioned and coins in general, keen to have something vaguely intelligent to say on the topic next time.

The conversation drifted pleasantly for a while, Mycroft alternating between concentrating on Greg and looking casually out over the bar. Greg wasn’t fooled; he knew Mycroft would have at least one security person in here with him, but he wanted to monitor the room as well. After so many years in the job, the instinct was strong in him too and he didn’t take it personally when Mycroft’s eyes drifted.

As Greg was explaining why the latest trade between Arsenal and Manchester United was a disaster, Mycroft’s eyes drifted across the room again, his body turning as he rotated. Greg kept talking, experience telling him that Mycroft was still listening. He stopped abruptly when Mycroft turned back, still looking casual but speaking over him. Mycroft never interrupted, and Greg felt the hairs at the base of his neck rise at the intense look in his eyes.

“I need to leave. Immediately.”

Greg blinked. “Okay.” Whatever it was, it was serious.

Mycroft pulled out his phone, affecting a vaguely bored expression as he typed something, then returned it to his pocket as he looked back intensely at Greg.

“I can’t explain right now.”

“Okay.” Greg wasn’t going to argue. He could feel the adrenalin in his blood, just waiting for him to leap into action.

“You need to leave too.” Mycroft’s eyes clouded over for a second, and Greg wondered why he thought he saw regret and apology there. “Do you trust me?”

Greg didn’t even need to think. “Yes. Tell me what you need me to do.”

“Kiss me.”

Greg felt himself blink, taking a second to process. He still wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

“Kiss me, hard, like you’re a bit drunk and trying it on. I’ll push you away, then storm out. Follow me out, but I’ll be gone. Take a taxi home and text me immediately when you’re inside.” His eyes were intense on Greg’s. “Do you understand?”

Greg was still a little hung up on _kiss me_ but he swallowed hard and nodded. Whatever was going on, it was serious, and he trusted Mycroft to come up with the best plan for the situation. He couldn’t let his own emotions get in the way. “When?” he asked.

Mycroft slipped his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it, the screen lighting up as he looked at it. “Now.”

Greg nodded, taking a deep breath. He slipped from his stool, allowing himself to stagger a little as he laid one hand on Mycroft’s arm and grabbed at his phone.

_Jesus, this is hard to do._

He missed on purpose, smiling loosely as Mycroft put the phone safely in his pocket, easing back, but Greg chased him, using his body to manoeuvre Mycroft back against the wall, holding his eyes. He could feel his pulse hard in his throat as he pressed one hand to Mycroft’s chest.

He hesitated a second, eyes still holding Mycroft’s before he reached further.

_Trust. You asked me to trust you. Now I’m hoping you trust me._

Greg’s free hand landed at the same time as he pressed his mouth to Mycroft’s, sliding up his jaw to keep him steady as Greg tilted his head. He’d judged badly, missing Mycroft’s mouth and having to adjust before he could settle their mouths properly together. Heart racing, Greg was trying to find the line between looking like he was giving Mycroft no choice and being a little too eager in this charade.

Overall it was pretty difficult with the fire racing through his veins. Mycroft’s lips were soft, and for all the indignation Greg expected he was surprisingly pliant as Greg surged forward, trying to look insistent. He could feel the gentle scrub along Mycroft’s jaw as his palm slipped a little further, fingers curving with the shape of his skull. The heat under his skin was intensified where their skin met, and Greg wondered if it was really so long since he’d kissed someone that he’d forgotten how intense it felt.

Before he could sink too far into the whirlpool of sensation, Greg felt Mycroft’s hand push against his chest. It wasn’t hard – if he’d wanted to, he could have ignored it – but Greg released Mycroft immediately, moving back further than the push warranted. He blinked, prepared to manufacture some kind of argument to preface Mycroft storming out, but before he could his eyes were drawn to the change in Mycroft’s face.

It wasn’t the wide eyes, or the parted lips, slightly full with the pressure of Greg’s kiss.

It was the deep, forest green smeared up his jaw, arching up where Greg’s thumb had traced the shape of his cheek. The same colour blossomed in an off centre smudge in one corner of his mouth, and Greg could almost taste the Scotch again as he remembered the feel of Mycroft’s lips under his.

_What the…_

Feeling his own mouth drop open, Greg raised his palm, looking at the identical colour staining the inner surface of his fingers and hand.

_Soulmark._

_Soulmates._

_Holy shit._

He looked up again, speechless, but Mycroft’s face was closed off as he stared at Greg’s hand. Greg fancied he knew the man well enough to see the panic behind the façade; there was a difference between the ‘polite but bored’ neutral expression and this tighter version of the same. They were still halfway through whatever this was, and the point of it all was to get Mycroft out of this bar safely. Mycroft pushed away from the wall, and Greg remembered he was meant to follow Mycroft out.

“Hang on,” he said, mostly playing his part but feeling the panic come though him despite the façade they were playing. Mycroft ignored him, pushing past and grabbing his coat and scarf as he did. Greg turned, deliberately bumping the guy next to him to give Mycroft a head-start.

“Careful mate,” a gruff voice protested.

“Sorry,” Greg said, his words slurring. He was meant to be a bit drunk, after all. He barely looked at who he was talking to; Mycroft had disappeared into the crowd towards the door and Greg could only hope he was still safe from whatever they were trying to avoid.

The man beside him said something, and Greg waved him off, following Mycroft into the crowd. He didn’t see anything other than a group of rowdy drinkers, and he wondered what Mycroft had seen that had alarmed him so much. It must have been something specific, probably a person. Greg wouldn’t even know who that could be, so he concentrated on getting through to the door as quickly as possible. Several people did a double take as he moved through the crowd, and Greg realised somewhere in his brain that he’d have some variation of forest green smudged around his mouth. It wasn’t unheard of, but it would be enough to warrant comments. Probably for the rest of his life, Greg thought wryly. Excellent.

+++

_Home safe. You too I hope. - Greg_

_Yes. I will be in contact tomorrow. - MH_

Greg nodded at his phone. He was safe, Mycroft was safe. The two main concerns were settled so he could concentrate on what the hell they were going to do about their very new, very obvious soulmarks. With another nod Greg plugged his phone in and stripped, dumping his clothes on the bed before walking into the bathroom. He might have been faking how drunk he was at the end of the night, but the cloudiness in his head was very real.

With the issue of Mycroft’s safety resolved and the shower running, Greg stood in front of the mirror and looked at the unfamiliar reflection, leaning in to examine his face and the forest green that matched his palm. He’d obviously managed to touch Mycroft’s jaw at exactly the same moment they’d kissed. Soulmarks didn’t lie, and the two patches of colour were clear on Mycroft’s skin. The uneven colour across his own mouth was thankfully smeared enough to not look like lipstick; it was more like a kid after an oddly-flavoured ice-cream cone. Not ideal, but better than the lipstick thing. Wonderingly Greg looked down at his palm again, still amazed the colour was still present. He flexed his fingers backwards, fascinated to see where it didn’t bleed into the lines on his palm. Obviously those areas of skin hadn’t made contact with Mycroft’s face.

Impulsively, he wondered if there were similar voids in Mycroft’s mark. Would he get the chance to examine it? Questions curled in his belly as he stepped into the shower, the hot water tracing over his skin as he thought about Mycroft. A dangerous idea while he was in this state; naked, a little lonely, a little worried. Another on the list of things he wouldn’t ever tell anyone, as one hand drifted down his abdomen. This was not the first time his weakness for powerful leggy redheads had helped him relax, and Mycroft was increasingly often a feature of his fantasies. Greg let his mind drift and his hand stroke, and it wasn’t long before he was gasping, leaning against the tiles with his eyes closed. After the events of the evening, his mind had supplied the kind of details Greg had only ever been able to invent for himself, and they’d ramped him up faster than he believed was still possible.

The detail that had pushed him over the edge? The realisation that he was stroking himself with a hand covered in Mycroft’s soulmark.

_What the hell am I going to do?_

Greg dried himself on autopilot, brushing his teeth while he was in the bathroom. A t-shirt and soft, old pyjama bottoms and he was ready for bed, in body if not mind. Tomorrow would be a long day, he reminded himself. Heaps of paperwork from today’s arrest, and he knew from experience if he worked like a dog tomorrow he’d be able to enjoy the weekend without having to worry about Monday morning. Not to mention the fact that he’d have everyone in the bloody building asking about his new soulmark.

As he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Greg realised his team was probably still in the bar when it all went down with Mycroft. He’d left too fast for anyone to speak to him, but he had no idea if anyone had seen him with Mycroft. Would they even recognise him? Greg couldn’t remember if anyone at work had ever spoken to Mycroft, though he had certainly been to plenty of crime scenes. Either way, with a team of detectives curious, it was unlikely Greg would get through the day without having to give some kind of explanation. Which would be difficult when he had no idea what was going on.

Groaning, Greg turned over in bed, seeking the cool fabric of the other pillow. There was no way he was going to sleep at this rate. He eyed his phone in the dim light, a dark block on top of the bedside table. He resisted the urge to pick it up; he’d only end up sucked into a rabbithole of YouTube videos or some rubbish list of Top People With Weird Soulmarks You’ve Never Seen. Certainly nothing that would help him get to sleep.

He was still fighting the urge to sit up and thumb open his phone when the screen lit up. Scrambling, Greg pulled it towards himself, blinking into the brightness before the text resolved itself.

_Are you awake? - MH_

Holy shit. It was Mycroft.

_Yes._

The reply came almost immediately.

_Might I come in? It is important or I would not ask. - MH_

_Jesus._ Greg swallowed as he stared at the message. Mycroft must be downstairs. How long had he been there? Greg cut off that line of thought and focused on his phone instead. Mycroft was still waiting for his response.

_Yeah of course. I’ll put the kettle on. - Greg_

He stood up, wondering if he should get dressed, but a knock at his door made him freeze. Maybe Mycroft hadn’t been waiting as far away as the street, then. With no time to dress, Greg grabbed his bathrobe instead, walking to the door with a much faster heartrate than the moderate exercise actually warranted. He fumbled with the tie before it finally tightened at his waist.

“Hi,” he said, when the door opened to reveal Mycroft. “Come in. Haven’t put the kettle on yet. You were closer than I thought.”

 _Okay, shut up now,_ Greg told himself.

Mycroft looked nervous; his coat and scarf were absent and Greg wondered if he’d waited inside because he wasn’t dressed for the night air. It was the first time Greg had ever seen him lacking layers of clothing; was it a sign of distraction? Speaking of which, Greg couldn’t help his eyes skating over the green on Mycroft’s face as he entered Greg’s flat.

“My apologies,” Mycroft murmured. He eased past, eyes flicking across details of the room and Greg realised it was the first time he’d been here. “I intended to contact you late tomorrow afternoon but after the…developments of the evening, I found myself unable to wait.”

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “I was still up.” He led the way into the kitchen, turning to meet Mycroft’s eyes. The deep green teased the edges of his vision as he fought not to stare. “Did you want a cuppa?”

“No thank you,” Mycroft said, folding his hands in front of himself. He looked supremely uncomfortable. “Caffeine at this time of night is not a good idea.”

“Take your pick,” Greg encouraged him, opening the top drawer. “Decaffeinated tea or coffee, or camomile, peppermint, this sleepy blend is some kind of herbal thing…”

“You have quite a selection,” Mycroft said. Greg was suddenly aware he’d basically invited Mycroft to come and stand right beside him. The awareness of his presence cascaded over Greg, and he fought to keep his breathing steady as Mycroft stood beside him. He watched as Mycroft selected the camomile, wanting to reach out to meet the long fingers as they chose a tea bag. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Greg said, filling the kettle. He busied himself with the organisation, collecting mugs and sugar and spoons, avoiding the conversation he was suddenly nervous about. When the water boiled and the mugs were full, there was no more work with which to occupy himself.

“Sit on the sofa?” Greg asked. The scent of his own peppermint tea mingled with the sweetness of Mycroft’s camomile as they walked the few steps into the living area and settled themselves, a careful distance between their knees. “So,” Greg said, bracing himself, “what did you see in the pub tonight?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “I apologise,” he began, but Greg cut him off.

“Don’t,” he said as kindly as he could. “I’m not…I dunno, whatever you think might need an apology. But I’d like to know what kicked it all off tonight. If you can tell me.”

“The situation is not as mysterious as you are insinuating,” Mycroft told him. “It has nothing to do with work, as it turns out.”

Greg nodded. “Sherlock?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, the half-smile Greg associated with their relaxed late nights tugging at Mycroft’s mouth and Greg’s heart in equal measures. “To cut a long and tedious story short, a former adversary of my brother made it clear that should we ever meet again he would be…unhappy. I spotted not only that individual but a number of his known associates in the bar this evening.”

“Jesus,” Greg muttered. “Why’s this guy still on the streets?”

“The resources required to detain everyone my brother irritates would be considerable,” Mycroft said wryly, and Greg had to grin at the assessment. “The single security detail I had stationed outside would have been woefully inadequate,” Mycroft continued. “I needed something that would allow me to leave immediately and naturally.”

Greg frowned but didn’t voice his confusion.

_But why…_

“I also wanted to ensure you were able to leave,” Mycroft said. “I was aware of the presence of your colleagues, and the complication of a group of police officers may have had wider implications.”

Greg took a second to translate that.

_If these bad guys had seen the coppers, an all in brawl could have broken out._

“Okay,” he said cautiously. He waited for Mycroft to continue, but he instead raised his tea to his lips. Greg found himself staring at the green blurred on the side of his mouth as it disappeared behind the mug only to reappear a moment later.

_I did that._

Unconsciously he raised one hand to his own mouth, trying to recall the shape of his mark. He couldn’t quite remember it exactly; surely the curves would become more familiar as time wore on. Focussing again on his companion, he saw Mycroft watching him and Greg lowered his hand. He didn’t quite understand why Mycroft had chosen the tactic he had. Was there something he was missing? Greg wondered if he should ask, or see if Mycroft brought it up but as he let the idea wander through his mind, Greg abandoned his planning. He was tired, and the energy required for clever questions and shades of meaning was too much. They couldn’t deny their soul marks, and Greg just wanted to have a plain spoken conversation, where everyone simply asked questions and gave answers without any complications.

_Just ask him._

“I don’t really understand why we couldn’t just walk out,” Greg said simply.

Mycroft met his eyes, and Greg saw the acknowledgement of his straightforward question. It was accompanied by a strange kind of relief at the plain, quiet words.

“We could have,” he said, and he pulled himself to sit more upright on Greg’s tired old sofa. “I convinced myself it would not be the best option.”

“Why?” Greg asked. He didn’t feel as nervous as he thought he might. There was nothing to misinterpret in this conversation. Perhaps that was it.

“Because it was an opportunity to be kissed by you,” Mycroft admitted quietly.

Greg sat with the admission for a moment, trying to figure out how he felt about it. On a base level, he was thrilled; Mycroft was interested in him. The more he thought about it, though, the more potentially complex the idea behind the simple words.

_Keep asking questions. Make sure you understand._

“And that was…something you wanted?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

Greg nodded. It was oddly similar to interviewing a compliant witness. It hardly felt like he was talking about himself when he asked, “For a long time?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He hesitated, and Greg waited for him to find the words. “You didn’t object.”

“No,” Greg replied. The easy honesty made the conversation far less awkward than it might have been, and he found it easy to admit, “I wasn’t going to turn down the chance to kiss you, either.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. Was this a response he hadn’t considered? “You weren’t?”

“No,” Greg said, studying Mycroft’s expression. “You didn’t think that was even a possibility, did you?”

“No,” Mycroft confirmed. “How did you know that?”

“You thought you’d need to apologise,” Greg said. “And your reaction now.”

“I have never been considered desirable,” Mycroft told him without bitterness, the bald assessment somehow still dignified in the quiet of Greg’s flat. Greg could almost feel him withdrawing again, anticipating Greg’s reaction, perhaps. Greg’s heart finally responded to the situation, heaving dramatically in his chest. Did Mycroft really think he wasn’t attractive? Who had told him he wasn’t? Or hadn’t told him he _was_?

“You have by me,” Greg told him. “Which kind of brings us to this.”

He raised his hand, showing Mycroft the deep green covering his palm. His mug was empty, and he placed it on the floor, watching as Mycroft did the same.

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered. The silence rang between them again, and Greg’s heart was calm again as he waited for Mycroft to speak through the rapidly gathering awkwardness. “Your timing must have been exceptional.”

It wasn’t what Greg expected him to say, and he felt the smile of surprise spread across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ve ended up with a bit of a mess, haven’t we?”

The unexpected moment of levity broke the discomfort that had threatened to take over. “It’s certainly more extensive than I might have hoped for,” Mycroft admitted.

“Did you know?” Greg asked.

Mycroft was very still, and Greg wondered if their bubble of honesty was at an end. When he did answer, it was clear Greg’s question had borne an ambiguity he hadn’t realised.

“That you and I were…connected,” Mycroft said carefully, “no. That I had not found my connection, of course.”

“And me?” Greg asked. He was learning that Mycroft wouldn’t always offer information, but he would answer direct questions, as long as Greg had the courage to ask them.

“I had no conclusive evidence,” Mycroft said. “Given the reluctance for most couples to register, your lack of registration was hardly definitive. And it was possible you had a mark somewhere I had not seen.”

Greg grinned. “What kind of person do you think I am?” he asked, hoping for a smile in return. “Having a mark where it can’t be seen in respectable company?”

“Far too noble for such a mark,” Mycroft admitted with a smile of his own.

“And yet,” Greg said, waving his hand to his face. “We’re going to have to explain this quite often, I think.”

Mycroft nodded. “Already my assistant has asked…certain questions.”

“Really?” Greg asked. “I thought she was too restrained for that kind of thing.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Appearing with a mark that clearly indicated I’d been kissed appeared to break any restraint she may have otherwise demonstrated,” he admitted.

“So you’re not going to fire her, then,” Greg said. He ignored the small thrill that skittered up his spine as Mycroft’s mouth shaped the word _kissed._

“And train someone new?” Mycroft said with a theatrical shudder. “No, thank you. I shall endure her questioning for a short period before making it clear the topic is closed.”

Greg nodded. “And what exactly are you going to tell her?” he asked.

“That depends,” Mycroft said calmly, and it took a second for Greg to realise their conversation had veered away from the light banter back into more serious territory again. From what he could tell, the unadorned honesty was still a working policy.

“On me?” Greg asked.

“On both of us, I would think,” Mycroft said. “You will, after all, have similar questions given your own new mark.”

“I will,” Greg replied. Neither of them spoke, but the silence was more contemplative than awkward. “More worried about my mother than my team, to be honest.”

“She’s tenacious?” Mycroft asked. His eyes were less cautious than they had been and Greg imagined some warmth was creeping into his expression.

“Not necessarily,” Greg replied. “But if she asks you to spell your name she’s about to have wedding invitations printed.”

“Ah,” Mycroft murmured. “Noted.”

“I think we’re both avoiding saying it,” Greg said conversationally. He was tired, and as nice as it was to be sitting her with Mycroft close, his capacity for following this winding conversation was rapidly waning. “But it feels like we might be on the same page.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not saying we should move in together right now, but all things considered, I’d be pretty happy if you wanted to,” he paused, not sure how to phrase it the right way, “start seeing each other.”

Mycroft nodded. “As would I,” he said. “On an exclusive basis.”

“Of course,” Greg said. It was easy and natural to ease forward, cupping Mycroft’s cheek again with the same hand. Warmth shot through him as their marks met again, and from Mycroft’s startled look, he’d felt it too. “I’d forgotten that would happen,” Greg admitted. “Long time since I thought it might happen to me.”

“I have never thought I would,” Mycroft whispered and his simple honesty again tugged at Greg’s heart. How had their relationship taken such a turn since the afternoon? From carefully avoided topics of conversation to open communication. From maybe-friends to romantic soulmates.

_From lonely to hopeful._

Greg hummed in acknowledgement, kissing Mycroft. It was wonderful, slow and quiet as their mouths eased together, neither in a hurry as they sealed their agreement. He was thrilled when Mycroft made no effort to end the kiss. Perhaps they really were on the same page. Part of his brain wanted to ask Mycroft more questions, but the sensible part reminded him that there was plenty of time, and why would he stop Mycroft kissing him?

“You know,” Greg murmured later as they lay together on the sofa, foreheads resting close, his thumb still brushing over Mycroft’s cheek, “I don’t think we’ll really have to say anything.”

“No?” Mycroft murmured. By now Greg knew the warmth he felt in his soulmark was mirrored in Mycroft’s, and the slow strokes on his cheek were comforting.

_I did that. I can do that, now._

“I mean, everyone knows what the colours mean,” Greg said. “And they’ll know when they see us together.”

Mycroft hummed in response, his eyes closed.

_Trust._

“And if you really want everyone at the Yard to know,” Greg said, “you can make sure you see your brother before he shows up at my office next week.” He grinned. “He’ll definitely say it loud enough for the whole world to hear.”

“And that wouldn’t be a problem?” Mycroft asked, opening his eyes to meet Greg’s.

“What, the whole world knowing?” Greg asked with a smile. “No.”

“Why not?” Mycroft asked.

_Oh, my dearest…_

“Because what you see is not what I see,” Greg said. “And believe me, ‘showing you off’ is going to be a far more likely scenario for me than, ‘hiding you away.’”

“Oh,” Mycroft replied. Greg had the distinct impression he still didn’t quite understand but that was probably a long term project. One he was quite happy to work on in the coming months.

_Years…_

“In the meantime,” Greg said, “it’s pretty late. Do you want to stay here tonight?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ve increased the security on this flat,” he said. “And I’ll have to go to work in the morning.”

“So will I,” Greg replied. “Maybe we can meet tomorrow night. Exchange war stories about,” he traced a finger over the marks on Mycroft’s face, “our days.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Please.”


End file.
